Two Steps Forward
by Joodiff
Summary: Six months after Luke's death Grace becomes concerned that Boyd isn't coping with his loss... but that's only the start of their troubles. T for language. Complete. Enjoy!
1. One

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

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><p><strong>Two Steps Forward<strong>

by Joodiff

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><p><strong>ONE<strong>

There are definitely far better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, even a cold, wet November Sunday afternoon, but Grace has never been one to shy away from her obligations. A promise is a promise. Besides, there are a couple of fringe benefits on offer, including the solemn pledge of a home-cooked dinner later, and she's well-aware that given the right incentive, Peter Boyd is a more than competent chef. Then of course he would be, she reflects, being the sort of man who simply can't bear to be considered merely _average_ at anything. She is, however, beginning to query the merit of the other significant fringe benefit – the questionable pleasure of his company. His mood has steadily deteriorated over the course of the last few hours as their painstaking scrutiny of document after document has consistently failed to provide any of the clues they were both hoping to find.

"I think we're on a hiding to nothing," she says eventually, taking off her reading glasses and rubbing her tired eyes for a moment. "There's nothing here that even remotely links Fenton to any of the dead girls, or to any of the disposal sites."

"Mm," Boyd mutters, not looking up. "There's got to be something. I'm not ready to give up yet."

"You never are," Grace points out, staring at the top of his head. The short silver hair is ruffled from the number of times he's impatiently run his fingers through it in the last couple of hours. She ignores the tiny part of her mind that wonders what it would feel like to stroke it back into order. When it's obvious he's not going to reply she adds, "You do know I'm only doing this _incredibly thirsty work_ out of the sheer goodness of my heart, don't you?"

Boyd does look up at that, expression somewhere between indulgent and irritated. "Is that a polite euphemism for 'go and put the bloody kettle on'?"

"What a good idea," she says sweetly. Massaging her temples, she continues, "Coffee, please – and I don't suppose you've got a couple of aspirin to go with it…?"

"Bathroom cabinet upstairs," Boyd informs her, selecting another slim folder from the slowly-diminishing pile.

"Upstairs?" she echoes, somewhat disconcerted by the alien concept.

He shoots her a faintly amused look. "Don't worry, I've deactivated the minefield and the armed guards don't work weekends. You'll be fine."

"You're so funny," is her sour reply as she gets to her feet. "Go and put the kettle on. Where upstairs?"

"Second on the left. If you find the torture chamber, you've gone too far."

She pats him on the shoulder in passing. "What you choose to get up to in the privacy of your own home, Boyd…"

Ascending the stairs does feel a little strange, however. A sporadic visitor to the house for more years than she cares to think about, Grace knows the downstairs layout well, but the steep, thickly-carpeted staircase has always represented a line very definitely never crossed. A palpable barrier between the part of Boyd's life that is readily accessible to her and the part that still remains firmly off-limits even after such a long acquaintanceship. Still, strange or not, she can't help inquisitively taking note of her surroundings as she heads further into his domain than she's ever dared trespass before. It's all disappointingly ordinary, of course, very much like the lower floor. A large, solidly middle-class family home that no longer has a family. She idly wonders which of the closed doors leads into his bedroom, but wisely has no intention of actually finding out.

The property's principal bathroom is no great surprise, either. It's clean and tidy and some serious money's been spent on renovating it at some point in the not too distant past but she immediately feels it could only ever really be described as elegantly unremarkable. In a way, the bland, easily-forgettable image Grace forms of the room is definitely for the best, though as she reaches for the promised bathroom cabinet's mirrored door, she is momentarily distracted by the wide array of masculine toiletries and shaving accoutrements neatly lined up on the narrow glass shelf beneath it. Pulling a face at her shameless curiosity, she determinedly returns her attention to the task in hand. Not as easy as she might have predicted, it appears. The inside of the cabinet is not as tidily ordered as expected, and she suspects that one wrong move will result in a minor avalanche of only haphazardly-stowed bits and pieces. Some of which she feels she definitely doesn't want or need to know about.

She spies the promised aspirin on the upper shelf, a generic supermarket-brand packet carelessly tucked between a couple of small unassuming cardboard boxes bearing the kind of adhesive printed labels produced by dispensing pharmacies. Unremarkable. Unfinished courses of antibiotics, maybe, or the forgotten legacy of one or other of the injuries Boyd has picked up in the line of duty during the time she's known him. Natural curiosity is one thing, wilful invasion of his privacy quite another. Grace reaches only for the aspirin, but perhaps it's not altogether surprising that the domestic disorder conspires against her and she manages to dislodge one of the unidentified packets from its place. It falls into the sink with a gentle clatter, foil-backed strips within crackling faintly as it lands. Pursing her lips in annoyance, Grace rescues the errant cardboard box. It's entirely natural to glance at the label and as she does so she momentarily freezes. Seroxat.

Paroxetine.

She stares at the packet in her hand, her mind suddenly racing. As a psychologist she is not, unlike a psychiatrist, qualified to prescribe medication, psychiatric or otherwise, but she does have an entirely necessary working knowledge of all the drugs commonly-used used throughout her field, and she knows exactly what she's looking at. A powerful modern antidepressant commonly used to treat anxiety and stress disorders, amongst other things. There's no mistaking the name and date of birth meticulously recorded on the pharmacist's label, either. Despite herself, Grace fumbles the packet open, and yes, the number of missing pills corresponds exactly with the printed date of supply.

There are a hundred questions racing through her mind, the most painful of which are how could she – an experienced mental health professional – not have suspected that… and just when did things become so bad for Boyd that he…?

"Grace?" his voice calls loudly and impatiently from the floor below. "What the bloody hell are you doing up there…?"

-oOo-

The food's good, but she picks at it listlessly and barely notices Boyd's disapproving glower as half of it remains untouched on her plate. What had the potential to be an enjoyable reward for nobly sacrificing her Sunday afternoon has become a quiet, strained purgatory as Grace silently asks herself some extremely unwelcome questions and struggles with the unpleasant notion that she has somehow failed him. In the worst possible way.

"Wine not good enough quality for you?" Boyd asks, his tone abrupt and pointed.

Grace looks up, suddenly guiltily aware of her shortcomings as a guest. He is watching her from the other side of the dining table, a touch peevish, a touch concerned. Intense dark eyes study her with intelligent ferocity and she shakes her head rapidly. "No. No, the wine's excellent. So's the food. I'm just… not quite as hungry as I thought I was."

He offers a derisive snort. "Come _on_, Grace… Do I look as if I was born yesterday?"

He doesn't. Late fifties, and though still a strikingly handsome man in a world-weary sort of way, now looks every single year of it. Stress, time and circumstance have aged him, no doubt about that. Grace holds his interrogative gaze for a moment then returns to toying with her food. She says, "You were saying…? About Stella…?"

"I was telling you that she's thinking about studying for her sergeant's exams," Boyd replies, "but I'm fairly certain I could have said she was seriously considering applying for the Commissioner's job and you wouldn't have raised an eyebrow. What on earth's the matter with you tonight?"

"Nothing."

"Bollocks."

Grace can't help quirking a faint smile in response to his characteristic brusqueness. Looking up again, she dares to ask, "Are you all right, Boyd? Really all right, I mean?"

He leans back in his chair and fixes her with a contemplative but guarded stare. "Any reason why I wouldn't be?"

_Perhaps because it hasn't been six months yet since your only child died from a heroin overdose?_ Grace thinks, but instead of voicing the words she shrugs. "You just… don't seem to have been quite yourself recently, that's all."

Boyd sighs loudly and deliberately. He's never had much time for polite obfuscation. "Just spit it out, will you? If you've got something to say, just say it."

Bluntness is his specialty, not hers, but after a long pause Grace says, "All right. How long have you been taking anti-depressants?"

His expression hardens instantly, becomes closed and stubborn. "I wondered what was taking you so long upstairs. Have a good poke around, did you?"

The harsh accusation stings, but her reply is calm. "You know me better than that. How long, Boyd? Weeks? Months?"

"It's none of your damned business."

"Does the DAC know?" Grace pushes him. "Look, if you're having trouble coping – "

"I am _not_ having trouble coping. With anything."

They glare at each other across the table, angry tension suddenly spiking between them. Genuine concern easily outweighs the urge to criticise him for his obstinacy. She tries, "I'm your friend, remember? I care about you – though sometimes I'm not exactly sure why. Why on earth didn't you talk to me?"

"Nothing to talk about," Boyd tells her, the flatness of his tone not quite concealing the obvious edge of warning. "Don't try to build this up into something it's not, Grace. I went for my annual check-up and the doctor just thought it might be a good idea for a while."

He's lying. No doubt about it. If she knows anything about Boyd at all, it's that he never volunteers personal information easily. He wouldn't make such an admission unless the unvarnished truth was even harder for him to admit. Deciding the direct approach is best, Grace sets down her knife and fork and says, "Paroxetine has all sorts of unpleasant side effects, and it's absolutely _notorious_ for the severity of its withdrawal symptoms. No-one prescribes it on a whim, Boyd."

The glowering on the other side of the table intensifies. "And what, exactly, makes it anything to do with you?"

Ignoring the belligerent question, she asks again, "Does the DAC know?"

"Fuck off, Grace." The answer is sullen rather than irate.

"I'll take that as a no, then." Grace shakes her head. "For God's sake, Boyd – do you really need to give the Yard another stick to beat you with?"

"It's no-one's damned business but mine."

"Which might be true if you weren't in charge of – "

"Just drop it, will you?" he interrupts. The knuckles of the clenched fist resting on the table are bone white. "Jesus Christ, Grace, I'd have thought you'd be _pleased_, if anything. Aren't you always endlessly banging on about people making an effort to look after their mental health?"

_Patience,_ Grace tells herself. He's pushing back to cause a fight that will deflect her attention away from the issue. Now is not the time to take the bait. She asks, "Did he offer you anything else? Counselling? Talking therapies?"

"_She_. And that's none of your business, either."

Probably they were offered but summarily declined. Or he agreed with no intention of attending whatever appointments were made for him. It's difficult not to sigh. "Anti-depressants aren't the answer, Boyd. Not on their own. What you've been through – "

"_Don't_," he raps out. His voice is hard, brittle. "I'm not having this conversation with you, Grace. Keep your pointless psycho-babble to yourself. And while you're at it, keep your damn mouth shut about the pills, too."

She understands his mounting aggression, recognises it for what it is – instinctive defence – but she's still wounded by it. His sudden vehemence reminds her of the worst of the difficult days when they could hardly bear to be in the same room together, when everything, no matter how inconsequential, seemed to lead to acrimonious words and bitter quarrels that could drag on for days. Tiring, hostile times that Grace thought they'd left behind them. Times she doesn't want to remember, times when his rudeness and insensitivity made her unnaturally spiteful in direct retaliation. They've always been able to bring out the best and worst in each other. Striving hard to remain equable, she says, "I thought we had an understanding, Boyd. You promised you wouldn't shut me out, remember?"

"Leave it, Grace," he tells her, a hollower note now colouring his voice. "I know you think you're helping, but…"

Silence intervenes and they stare at each other. The ticking from the big clock on the wall suddenly seems very loud, a stark metronome marking the spiky rhythm of their antagonism. Grace pushes her unfinished plate of food away, the scrape of china against wood discordant. "Nothing ever really changes, does it? We're supposed to be friends, but when push comes to shove, you just have to be stubborn and attempt to go it alone, don't you?"

"And you simply can't resist the temptation to attempt interfere, can you?"

Grace stands up faster than she intends, as if jerked to her feet by invisible strings. "Why do I bother trying to help you? You always throw it straight back in my face."

Boyd is on his feet, too. The table separates them, but there's still something intimidating about the height advantage he has over her. "Maybe you just need to learn a thing or two about professional boundaries, _Doctor_."

"Oh, that's good. Bloody hilarious, in fact, coming from you."

His expression has become thunderous, eyes glittering with barely-suppressed fury. "I won't be lectured in my own damn house, Grace. Not by anyone, and certainly not by _you_."

"Fine. I'm not even sure why I agreed to be here today."

"Leave then."

The note of challenge is clear in his voice. Even if it wasn't, Grace is a long way past the point of attempting to placate him. Her voice tight, she snaps back, "Oh, don't worry, Boyd; I'm going."

-oOo-

_continued..._


	2. Two

**TWO**

Despite being a little late, Grace expects Boyd to greet her with sheepish courtesy when she arrives for work the next morning. It's one of his usual tactics once he's had time to calm down and think things through for himself. A Boydian version of the traditional olive branch, one that sometimes comes with an unrequested cup of coffee in place of a verbal apology. Maybe he might have done exactly that if she hadn't walked into the squad room to find a maelstrom of activity taking place around him. From the new scribbles on the evidence board and the way Boyd is barking rapid orders at Stella and Spencer, Grace gathers that some kind of breakthrough has been made on the stalled multiple-murder case that has been thwarting the team's best efforts for days. Instead of a tacit apology, her greeting from him is little more than a hand half-raised in acknowledgement as he continues to harangue Stella who seems to be making quick phone call after quick phone call. It's hardly ideal, but at least it allows Grace to retreat to her office without a cold sense of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. By the time he's got a moment to think about more than the investigation Boyd will either have completely forgotten the preceding night's stinging exchange of words or he'll be too preoccupied with something else to revisit it. She won't get her apology, but at least the tension between them will dissipate harmlessly.

"Grace…?" Spencer appears in the doorway of her office, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Spence." She looks up at him expectantly. "You've made some progress?"

He nods. "Boyd found something in the files at stupid o'clock this morning. Looks like Fenton had a cousin who was handed down some serious time for a series of armed robberies back in the 'nineties. Gun used to kill a security guard was never recovered."

Grace stares at him in astonishment, not knowing how such an obvious link could have remained hidden for so long. "You're kidding? Why didn't we know this before?"

Spencer half-shrugs. "Guy died in prison six years ago and apparently it didn't occur to Stella to cross-reference Fenton with the Home Office's record of deceased prisoners."

"Ah," she says, beginning to understand, "hence all the aggrieved shouting."

"In one," he confirms, his brief answering smile wry. "Grace, I hate to ask, but have you got five minutes to take this stuff up to Eve? She's flat out up there and…"

She takes pity on him and takes the proffered pages. It's no hardship, and she suspects the atmosphere in the lab is considerably calmer than the current one in the squad room. Escaping the tendrils of Boyd's frenetic energy before he decides to come barrelling into her office to expound his latest theories doesn't seem like a bad idea at all.

-oOo-

"Is it still kicking off down there?" is Eve's opening gambit after a brief exchange of pleasantries.

Grace nods and settles herself on the nearest lab stool, resting her elbows on the workbench. "Judging by the volume and the amount of chaos, I'd say Fenton's going to be getting a knock on the door sooner rather than later."

"He's a happy man, then."

"Fenton?"

"Boyd."

She grimaces. "I wouldn't go quite that far."

Perhaps something in her voice betrays her because Eve's answering look is sharp and speculative. "Oh…?"

She sighs, glad to be able to share at least something of her concerns. "I think it's going to be a long time before we can safely say he's a happy man, Eve."

The younger woman moves across to the vent above the workbench, produces a crumpled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her lab coat and proceeds to light one. Exhaling, she says, "All right, I'll bite. What's on your mind, Grace?"

Perspicacity. Not just scholarly intellect, but a focused sort of intuition, too. Grace admires that about her colleague. It's one of the many reasons they've become good friends in the last couple of years. Careful not to say too much, she responds, "Have you noticed anything… odd… about him just recently?"

Eve snorts. "How could anyone tell? Odder than usual, you mean?"

Restraining a smile, Grace nods. "Exactly that."

"Not really. I mean, he's been a bit moody, but I just assumed it was to do with… you know."

"Luke."

A shrug, far more uncomfortable than dismissive. "Yeah. Parents aren't supposed to have to bury their kids, are they? I can't imagine what it would be like, having to go through that."

"Plenty do. It's a hard world, Eve."

"You won't hear any argument from me on that score." Eve continues to gaze at her with unwavering intensity. "So, come on, Grace, what's this all about? Have you had words or something?"

Grace almost sighs. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not to the casual observer." A deep inhalation is followed by a blissful exhalation. The resulting smoke curls lazily towards the vent and then is whisked briskly away. "I thought things were a lot better between you two?"

"They are," Grace confirms. It's true, and one difference of opinion, no matter how sensitive the underlying issue, won't fundamentally change things, she knows that. They've been through too much together, she and Boyd. The foundations of their friendship are solid. Aren't they?

"So?" Eve prompts. "What aren't you telling me?"

She can't risk telling Eve the truth, however heavily it's weighing on her. The potential consequences for Boyd if the rumour mill grinds into action to ruthlessly distort truth and half-truth are simply too great. It's not in Grace's nature to be evasive, but she replies, "It's nothing. Probably just me being silly."

Eve looks sceptical. "Yeah, _right_. Now I know I should be worried. What's he done?"

…_this time_. Grace hears the unspoken codicil quite clearly. Sometimes that much-admired perspicacity can be… awkward. Certainly when she finds herself on the receiving end of it. Eve just seems to have an uncanny ability to see straight through all her defences to the place where all the hidden things she doesn't dare openly admit even to herself lurk. "I just think," she says carefully, "that we shouldn't fall into the trap of underestimating the profound impact that Luke's death has had on him."

"Thank you, Doctor Foley," Boyd's loud voice says from the doorway, making both of them jump. "Your concern is duly noted."

Damned automatic laboratory doors. Sometimes they work flawlessly, sometimes they don't. She should have checked that they closed properly behind her and then he wouldn't have been able to suddenly appear behind them without any prior warning. As Eve hastily grinds out her half-smoked cigarette, Grace turns guiltily on her lab stool. "Boyd – "

The haughty look he gives her, cold and closed, freezes the words in her throat. He stalks towards them, everything about his posture suggesting he is not in the mood to listen to anything either of them might have to say unless it directly concerns Alex Fenton. He addresses Eve. "I need the ballistics, and I need them yesterday."

"I'm working on it," is the calm reply. "All I can tell you at the moment is that I can't exclude the possibility that the same weapon was used in both the armed robberies and the murders."

"Gut instinct?" he presses.

"I can't exclude the possibility that the same weapon was used," Eve repeats.

Boyd's glare expands to encompass both women. "That evil little bastard abducted, raped, tortured and shot all four of those poor bloody women, and we all know it. We've all known it for _days_. All I need is reasonable grounds and I can go and put his door in today without pissing about trying to get a warrant."

"I can't magic results out of thin air just to please you," Eve retorts, but she pushes a printed piece of paper towards him. "The bullets recovered from the scenes of the armed robberies were all nine millimetre Parabellum FMJs, just like the bullets used in the Southwark murders. It'll take time to establish if they were all fired from the same gun."

"But they could have been?"

"They _could_, but that's not saying much."

Boyd grunts and turns on his heel. He is already striding towards the door when he looks over his shoulder and growls, "Grace. A word."

-oOo-

There's not much space between them, hardly surprising given the restricted width of the gloomy corridor, and it infuriates Grace that she's forced to look up at him as he castigates her. The unfairness of his sharp rebuke is not as wounding as his apparent belief that she would so easily betray him. When Boyd pauses for breath she hits back with, "And you really think I'd tell Eve about the anti-depressants, do you? Thanks, Boyd. Thanks a _lot_."

She sees the words impact on him, sees the slight frown that suggests he's suddenly not quite so sure of himself. Angry though she is, something about his expression, weary and a little lost, makes Grace wish she could simply put her arms around him and whisper gentle reassurances into his ear. The dichotomy of their entire relationship laid bare – antagonism and affection, both pulling in opposite directions with no clear victor in sight to bring an end the perpetual struggle. Boyd clears his throat, a rough and loud noise in the narrow space. "Yeah, well… Maybe I jumped to the wrong conclusion…"

The admission is uncharacteristic – very much so – but Grace is too angry with him to pay much attention. "'Maybe'? Oh, you're priceless sometimes, you really are. Don't you think if I was going to tell anyone it would have been the DAC himself?"

His attitude changes, hardens again. "Do you know what would happen if you did? They'd haul me into a meeting at the Yard and at the very least they'd put me on bloody gardening leave. Is that what you want, Grace?"

"Of course not." Trying to defuse the situation Grace continues, "Boyd, I'm worried about you, that's all. For God's sake, anti-depressants? You? The man who thinks all psychiatrists are witch doctors and that psychotherapy is nothing more than voodoo? How can I not be worried sick when I find out you're taking something like paroxetine?"

"I'm not."

Confused, she asks, "What?"

"I'm not. Taking paroxetine. Threw the whole damn lot away last night. So now you don't have to worry, do you?"

Grace stares at him. "You…? What on earth did you do that for? You can't just suddenly stop taking that sort of drug, Boyd. You have to reduce the dose gradually to prevent all sorts of withdrawal problems."

"I feel fine."

Her irritation is mounting again. "Of course you do – at the moment. The half-life…" She breaks off, pauses, then starts again. "Look, if you want to stop taking them, let me ask a friend of mine what sort of gradual reduction he'd recommend and – "

Boyd's chin lifts a fraction. "It's done, Grace. Finished. So you don't need to go running to the DAC's office to tell tales."

"Why do you think I'd do that? To _you_, of all people?"

Again, he looks uncertain, as if he's not quite sure whether or not to trust what his instincts tell him. "Grace – "

"No," she interrupts, a strong swell of anger flowing through her. "I'm sick and tired of this. All the bickering and the not-quite accusations. Do whatever you want, Boyd, I don't care anymore."

It's a long way from the truth, of course, but Boyd looks as if she's just slapped him. Not angry, just coldly shocked, as if he can't quite process her words. It takes him a moment, but before Grace can say anything else, he grinds out, "Fine. Well, at least that's settled. Now, do you want to flounce off home in a sulk, or do you want to talk about that murdering bastard Fenton?"

-oOo-

Years of bitter experience, and she still doesn't know why Boyd gets further and faster under her skin than anyone else. None of the obvious reasons seem to explain the phenomenon quite well enough. Yes, he can be – _is_ – an unusually aggravating man, and yes, part of the reason he infuriates her so much is undoubtedly tied to her unfortunate and only half-acknowledged attraction to him, but –

A sudden surge of noise and activity beyond her closed office door interrupts Grace's dark reverie. She turns just in time to see Boyd heading at speed past the glazed partition that affords her a limited view of the squad room. He's already wearing his long topcoat and it gives his departing figure a dramatic silhouette as he disappears from sight. Stella is following him at a fast trot, calling something back to Spencer as she goes. It's the sort of thing Grace has witnessed dozens of times before – the Met's Cold Case Unit suddenly on the move to take down a promising suspect – but it still causes a flood of adrenaline to rush through her. She's on her feet and at the door before she knows it, opening it just in time to step out in front of Spencer who is also heading for the flight of stone steps that leads up to the rest of the building.

"What's happening?" Grace demands.

"Fenton," is the terse reply. "We're going to pick him up."

"Mob-handed?"

"If he's got a gun in the house…"

"Point taken. Wait, just let me get my coat."

Spencer moves to push past her. "Sorry, Grace, your name wasn't on the guest list."

"It's just been added," she tells him.

-oOo-

Boyd's big silver Audi is several cars ahead of them, weaving haphazardly through the midday London traffic, and when the normally concealed blue strobes are suddenly switched on Grace can only imagine how close he is to losing his temper with the drivers around him. Next to her, Spencer curses under his breath and follows Boyd's example, switching on his own car's lights. It doesn't seem to help much – blue lights and sirens are no novelty in the big busy city. Gripping the passenger door handle hard, she says, "Keep an eye on Boyd, Spence. I don't think he's in the best frame of mind to be dealing with Fenton."

He doesn't take his eyes off the road ahead. "Man's guilty as sin, Grace. I'm not going to lose any sleep if Boyd roughs him up a little for resisting arrest."

"I just don't want things to get out of hand. You know what he's like. If things go too far…"

This time Spencer spares her a quick glance. "Oh, don't worry; I won't let the bad-tempered old bugger beat the living shit out of him."

"And don't let him catch you calling him that, Spence, or it won't be just _Fenton_ catching it."

He grins. "Last time Boyd actually clipped me round the ear I was still a DC, Grace, and the CCU wasn't even a twinkle in Ralph Christie's eye."

She chuckles despite herself. "I bet you deserved it, though."

"Probably, but I was – " Spencer breaks off. "Jesus. Where the fuck's he going?"

"Shortcut?" Grace guesses as the silver car ahead suddenly veers down a side street and disappears from view. "Put your foot down."

She's right, because less than five minutes later they come to a smooth halt behind Boyd's car, artfully parked behind a large high-sided delivery van that she guesses will prevent it from being seen from the grimy windows of the shabby house at the end of the run-down old Victorian terrace. Releasing her seatbelt, Grace is out of the car before Boyd spots her. He does not look pleased when he does, glaring at Spencer to ask, "What the hell's she doing here?"

"_She_," Grace says before their colleague can answer, "is doing her job, which, in this case, is to advise the officers she works with on the likely behaviour of a suspect."

Boyd does not look impressed. "Well, don't for one minute think you're coming into the bloody house with us."

-oOo-

Despite the noise made by their forcible entry, the poky house with its tired and old-fashioned décor is dark and quiet. At least, it is on the ground floor where Grace and Spencer are. The windows are small and dirty and mostly obscured by equally filthy curtains, and she can't help thinking that it's a perfect stereotype of what the general public imagine a serial killer's house looks like. If Norman Bates had turned his back on the motel business and decided to emigrate to London before that spot of trouble with Marion Crane, Grace thinks, this would be exactly the sort of place he'd have ended up living. Except that Norman belongs firmly on celluloid and Alex Fenton is all-too real. Wherever he is.

Keeping the proscribed distance back from Spencer she nearly jumps when he stops and looks round at her to announce in a low voice, "Not down here – unless he's in the cellar."

"Why is there always a cellar?" she mutters back. Black humour, a stock-in-trade of the unit's for as long as she can remember.

He grins. "No self-respecting nutjob should be without a cellar, Grace."

"Spence," she complains, but without much conviction.

Heavy Glock pistol still in hand, he gestures for her to step back into the hall. "Stay there. I'll check."

It's an unnerving experience, standing alone in the dark hallway listening to the distant noise of traffic outside in the real world and to the stealthy creak of floorboards overhead as Boyd and Stella search the upper storey. The house itself might not be a crime scene – as far as they know – but she still finds it an eerie, inimical place. Grace is not a superstitious woman and she's not scared, exactly, but she'll be far from disappointed when they all step back out into the cold November air, with or without Fenton.

The sound of a door slamming upstairs does make her jump. Her heart increases its fast rhythm and she finds herself looking up at the water-stained ceiling. Boyd's raised voice, absolutely unmistakable, is ordering someone to remain still. She doesn't know if she's relieved or not that something seems to be happening. Another voice, also male, but more muffled, makes an almost instant reply, one that is immediately followed by a clear warning from Stella. Now Grace is in no doubt that Fenton has been located.

Spencer appears at her shoulder, oddly light on his feet for a man of his stocky build, and he doesn't need to say a word as he heads straight past her towards the stairs. Grace knows the routine. She stays back until either the situation is clearer or she is called forward by one of her colleagues. She follows him to the foot of the stairs and halts there, watching as he heads upwards, one hand on the bannister rail, the other holding his gun aloft. Like Stella, Spencer is wearing standard issue body armour, and the bold word 'police' across the back stands out stark and clear in the gloom.

The first shot is loud and unexpected. In the confined space it sounds more like a canon firing than a hand gun, and even on the lower floor Grace's ears ring from it. It doesn't stop her from hearing Stella's urgent cry of, "Man down!"

As Grace's stomach lurches, Spencer hurls himself up the last few stairs and vanishes. Another shot follows almost instantly, and then a third. Impossible to tell what's happening, who has fired, who hasn't. She knows one thing, though – Stella wouldn't have given that traditional loud heads up for Fenton. It can only be Boyd who's down, and that's what drives Grace to follow Spencer up the stairs against all instinct and training.

Bursting into the room at the rear of the house, it's clear to her that Fenton is dead. His body, sprawled halfway across the dirty and dishevelled double bed, is the very first thing Grace sees. His eyes are open, but he's staring past her at nothing, and a large crimson flower is blossoming across the stained sheets beneath him. There's a gun on the dusty floor, inches from his trailing right hand, a heavy-looking automatic pistol of some kind – Grace is no expert in such things. She doesn't bother to waste her time studying the scene any longer. Her attention is all on Spencer and the prone figure he is kneeling next to, yet she somehow doesn't notice the way the long black coat is dramatically billowed out on the floor or the intricate patterns the fresh spatters of blood make on the threadbare carpet. Beyond the two men, Stella is standing by the window, handgun still in one hand, phone clenched in the other, her face pale and her expression tight. Grace knows this routine, too. Call an ambulance and send for CO19.

Her mouth is dry. She rasps, "Boyd…?"

"Alive," is Spencer's short response. He doesn't look round as he barks, "Stella, tell the paramedics to get a fucking move on..."

-oOo-

_continued..._


	3. Three

**THREE**

Last time it was Spencer. That's one of the intrusive thoughts that keep crowding in on Grace as she paces up and down the wide, brightly-lit corridor. Different hospital, of course, but last time it was Spencer in the hands of the doctors and Boyd waiting with her, dried traces of the younger man's blood still visible in the creases of his knuckles and around his fingernails. She remembers – very clearly – that instead of withdrawing into taciturn silence he could barely stop talking, Stella's betrayal and all it entailed followed by the double-shock of killing one man and saving another making him unusually loquacious. She remembers the way he sagged heavily against the wall when a smiling female doctor eventually arrived with good news; the way that when they finally abandoned their vigil they went straight to the nearest pub, a smoke-filled dive, and drank brandy sitting at a shabby corner table; the way they ignored the inquisitive stares of bemused patrons who quite plainly couldn't work out who or what the hell they were.

This time it is not Spencer. Spencer is the one making the necessary phone calls and badgering for news and Boyd is the one who –

She can't think about it. Needing the distraction, Grace sits down next to an unmoving Stella who's clutching an empty disposable coffee cup and staring down at the floor beneath her feet. It might not be the best time to start asking difficult questions, but the need to know exactly what happened on the floor above her in those terrifyingly significant moments is becoming far too intense. Grace hesitates just long enough to be certain her voice will sound calm and level before asking, "Where was Fenton?"

"In the bathroom," Stella replies, her soft French accent not disguising the notes of stress and worry layered through the words. She doesn't raise her gaze. "We were in the front bedroom when he made a break for the stairs, but when he saw I had a gun he ran into the other bedroom instead."

That explains the door Grace heard slamming, at least. "Boyd was behind you?"

Stella nods. "Yeah, of course. He wasn't armed."

_He never is,_ a distant voice in Grace's mind comments. It's laudable in its own way, she supposes, but it's something she's never really understood, Boyd's complete lack of enthusiasm for carrying a firearm. He has the necessary and specified police training, and every year he dutifully puts in the requisite number of hours at the range to maintain his certification, but he never draws a weapon from the armoury, even when he authorises one or more of his similarly-trained subordinates to do so. He doesn't wear body armour, either. She's always suspected that's just his vanity, but maybe there's something more to it than that. Good old-fashioned copper with good old-fashioned ideas about the way things should be done, perhaps.

"It was weird, though, Grace." Stella finally looks up at her, expression intense. "Fenton slammed the door shut behind him – maybe he needed time to grab his gun – so Boyd went in front to kick the door in..."

"Standard procedure." Open the door, by force if necessary, and immediately drop back against the wall, allowing the armed officer behind a clear field of fire.

"Yeah… but he didn't get out of the way," Stella says. She seems to be searching Grace's face for something as she continues, "He walked straight into the room shouting, and straight into Fenton's line of fire. It was, I don't know… as if… well, as if he just didn't care if Fenton was armed, and whether or not he might start shooting if he was."

'… _straight into Fenton's line of fire…' _The ominous words echo in Grace's mind, the implications making her heart pound.

"DI Jordan?" a brusque male voice calls. A young man in green surgical scrubs has stepped out into the corridor and he is now looking around expectantly. At Spencer's rapid affirmation, he says, "I'm Doctor Russell. It looks as if your colleague's been remarkably lucky, Inspector. The bullet's still in his abdomen, but it's missed all his vital organs."

The immediate and strong sense of relief in the corridor is almost palpable. Spencer asks, "Is he conscious? Can we talk to him?"

"We've sedated him," Russell replies with a firm shake of his head. He looks tired and not particularly interested in having a protracted conversation. Maybe he's almost at the end of a very long and arduous shift. "As soon as we've finished patching him up we'll send him to the high dependency unit, and then all being well he'll probably be moved up onto one of the general wards in the morning."

Surprised, Grace is frowning as she queries, "You're not going to operate to take the bullet out?"

The doctor shakes his head a second time. "We can see it quite clearly on the x-rays. It's not lodged in a dangerous position and it doesn't appear to have fragmented. Given the nature of the injury, surgical intervention would not only be unnecessary, it would be extremely unwise. Far better for Mr Boyd in the long-run if we leave well alone. He'll be on antibiotics for a couple of weeks, and the wound will be closely monitored as it heals. He'll be very sore for a while, but given time he should be fine. As I said, he's been remarkably lucky."

Although she dutifully nods in response, Grace is not convinced Boyd will see the matter in the same light.

'…_as if he just didn't care…' _Stella's voice whispers in her head, but the ghost of her own is far louder. Her voice angrily declaring, _'Do whatever you want, Boyd, I don't care anymore...'_

And suddenly there's a deep and guilty chill inside her, one that lingers long after she and her companions have left the hospital.

-oOo-

A dull but persistent headache follows a difficult and restless night, and by the time Grace has finished making a statement to the unfamiliar police officers assigned to investigate the previous day's events she is less than enthusiastic about settling behind her desk for the duration of the morning. The news from the hospital is good, Boyd is conscious and will be leaving the high dependency unit as soon as a bed can be found for him elsewhere, but with all the other thoughts and fears crowding her mind she doesn't find the news anywhere near as reassuring as she knows she should. Though they say very little, her colleagues seem surprised that she isn't already at the hospital with him, and not for the first time Grace finds herself wondering what silent conclusions they have drawn over the years about the nature of her off-duty relationship with their commanding officer. She's heard all of the most common rumours, even some of the more scurrilous ones, but she doubts even she could accurately explain exactly what has successfully maintained the curious bond between them through even the worst of times.

She is not at all surprised when Eve appears in her office and quietly closes the door behind her, shutting out the rest of the team. Sitting down uninvited, she asks, "How's Boyd?"

"Apparently indestructible," Grace replies with an unprompted grimace.

"He was bloody lucky."

"So the doctor at the hospital said."

"Ballistics," is Eve's enigmatic response. Grace raises her eyebrows in question and an answering shrug is followed by, "Fenton's Zastava was loaded with FMJs – full metal jackets – exactly the same as the bullets recovered from the armed robberies and the Southwark murders. If he'd had the sense to get hold of some hollow points… well, at that range I think you can safely assume it would almost certainly have been Goodnight Vienna."

Grace shudders. "It doesn't bear thinking about."

"I'm waiting for CO19's official report, but I'm not expecting any earth-shattering surprises. If it wasn't the weapon that fired all the bullets I've got, I'll hang up my lab coat for good." A short but telling pause. "Stella says Boyd walked straight into the line of fire."

The chill is back, a heavy and unwelcome presence deep in the pit of Grace's stomach. "Seemingly so."

Eve's gaze is steady and incisive. "Has this got anything to do with what you were talking about yesterday?"

Yesterday. It seems like such a long time ago. A whole lifetime ago. It never ceases to amaze Grace how quickly things can change. One minute everything is normal, the next… Anxiety and guilt gnaw at her. Her voice is very quiet as she reluctantly admits, "He's been taking anti-depressants, Eve. I only found out on Sunday."

"Ah ha."

Not the response she was expecting. Grace frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Eve folds her arms, leans back a little in her chair. "Boyd's been taking anti-depressants, so even though you have absolutely no reason to, you feel guilty because you didn't realise."

Succinct and horribly accurate. Grace looks down at the cluttered surface of her desk. It's difficult for her to say, "I'm a psychologist, for God's sake, and I've known him for _years_. How could I have missed all the signs that he just wasn't coping?"

Eve's reply is steady. "But he _has_ been coping, hasn't he? Okay, maybe he hasn't been exactly the life and soul of the party, but he's hardly fallen to pieces, has he? He's been turning up for work, getting on with things – so what if his GP's been giving him a little chemical help along the way? Millions of people take anti-depressants every single day, Grace; you know that better than anyone."

Fear. Anger. Confusion. Dozens of conflicting emotions are fighting for supremacy inside her. "This is _Boyd_ we're talking about. Imagine how bad things must have been for him to give in and discuss the situation with his doctor."

"Point taken."

"I think it was my fault, Eve." The words feel like they are torn from her, leaving tracks of scarlet pain in their wake.

The younger woman looks perplexed. "What?"

"Yesterday," Grace clarifies. "I think it was my fault. We had an argument after we left the lab. I lost my temper and told him I didn't care what he did."

Eve's expression clears. She sits forward, unfolding her arms, and her reply is quiet. "Grace, with all due respect, that's hardly headline news. You and Boyd are _always_ arguing and saying things you don't really mean. You're like an old…" She stops mid-sentence, the words trailing away.

"'…married couple'?" Grace finishes for her. She pulls a face. "It has been said."

"Well, you _are_." An exasperated gesture. "And whatever the hell Boyd thought he was doing at Fenton's place yesterday, it was nothing to do with anything you said or did."

"I wish I could be so sure." Seeing her colleague's sceptical look, Grace continues, "I think it really got to him. He's nowhere near as tough and insensitive as he pretends to be, Eve."

A loud and derisive snort precedes, "You think there's anyone on the team who doesn't know that? Boyd's really a pussycat, and you're in the running for bloody sainthood – but strip away all the clichés and _neither_ of you are exactly bulletproof… Sorry, bad metaphor."

"Very bad, under the circumstances."

Eve sighs. "All I'm trying to say is… Oh, I don't know. You two… it's painful to watch sometimes."

"Come on, we don't fight that much," Grace protests, barely aware that she is deliberately choosing to take the words at face value.

"That's _not_ what I meant."

Reluctant comprehension stirs somewhere deep in Grace's skull. Eve is incredibly perceptive and it's more than possible that she long ago put two and two together and came up with four. More than possible that she watched and contemplated, and ultimately reached some very accurate conclusions. Grace takes a steadying breath. "I don't – "

But Eve hasn't finished. "Stop hiding away down here and go and see him, Grace. Sort it out. Not just whatever was going on in that thick skull of his to make him act so recklessly, but whatever it is between you that's been slowly driving the pair of you crazy for as long as I can remember. Kiss him, slap him, whatever it takes – just _please_ sort it out. Before it's too late for one or both of you."

Grace can't help staring at the younger woman, more surprised by her boldness than by the actual words. "Eve – "

"Boyd needs you," Eve says, getting to her feet. "You know it, I know it – _everyone_ knows it. And you know what? I think you need _him_, too."

Now firmly on the defensive, she responds with a terse, "I think you're overstating the case."

"Really? I don't. Go and see him, Grace."

-oOo-

_continued..._


	4. Four

**FOUR**

Boyd is asleep. A predictable sort of anti-climax if Grace had really thought about it instead of spending most of her journey to the hospital trying to untangle her contradictory thoughts and feelings. Boyd is asleep and she can't voice any of the half-dozen possible opening lines buzzing through her head. At least he is in a quiet side room off the busy ward itself so she can gaze down at him without feeling any more self-conscious than usual about doing so. He's propped up on thick pillows, his eyes are closed, he is very pale, and there are all the expected tubes and wires to accompany the utilitarian hospital gown, but he is most definitely alive. It suddenly strikes her how seldom she's seen him so very still. Usually even if he's not on his feet and prowling, he's fidgeting restlessly, as if his body is always trying to keep up with his sharp mind. And he _is_ sharp. Part of the attraction.

Attraction. It's a dangerous word and an even more dangerous concept. One that still frightens her after years of distant acceptance and fierce denial. Oh, yes, there's a reason Grace is a past master at deliberately not examining – at not even _naming_ – all the worrying things that skulk in the infinite hinterland beyond the acceptable limits of friendship and professional respect. Sometimes she's certain that Boyd feels it too, whatever alchemy it is that draws them together and often all-but totally excludes everyone else… and then he will say or do something that convinces her that he really is utterly oblivious, that he simply isn't aware of the disruptive feelings for him that she does her best to ignore, and most certainly doesn't reciprocate them. And that would almost be bearable if things were always that way, but they aren't. Just as Boyd always appears to be in movement, so it seems that his thoughts and feelings are constantly in a state of flux. It's been difficult, but over time Grace has learnt to accept that he just can't be relied upon to think, say and feel the same things for more than two days in a row. Sometimes not even for more than two hours in a row.

He is an inconsistent creature, one of extremes, and as she looks down at him she wishes – more than anything – that he wasn't quite so adept at unintentionally upsetting the equilibrium she continually tries so hard to establish. It's ironic, she thinks, that she found life significantly easier while Boyd's attention was firmly elsewhere. Stray pangs of inconvenient jealousy might have nagged at her, but least she knew exactly where she was when he was… seeing… the American woman, Sarah. At least she was able to calmly dismiss all her wishful and only half-acknowledged dreams as foolish flights of fancy and –

Maybe Boyd is more aware of his surroundings than Grace thinks, because his eyes don't begin to flicker sleepily, they suddenly snap wide open, pupils contracting fast beneath the harsh artificial lights over the bed. He stares up at her, and it isn't confusion Grace sees dawn in his expression but a wary sort of acceptance, as if he knows that his survival means that there are going to be some extremely difficult questions to answer. Finding her voice, she says, "We decided someone really should make sure you were behaving yourself. I drew the short straw."

"Funny." His voice lacks its usual power, but the dry edge is comfortingly familiar.

She continues to stare down at him. "How do you feel?"

Boyd shifts slightly against the banked pillows and winces. "Like shit."

"Good."

His features settle into stubborn surliness. "Thanks, Grace."

All thoughts of cautious subtlety have disappeared. He has that effect on her. "Well?" she demands. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Boyd ignores the question. "Fenton…?"

"Dead," she informs him. "Stella shot him. Twice, actually."

"And his gun…?"

Grace is quite prepared to answer his questions if it will make it far more difficult for him to avoid hers. "A relic of the Cold War, according to Eve. Something called a Zastava. Yugoslavian."

"Grace." A restrained but pointed warning. He is not a patient man.

She shrugs. "CO19 took it from the scene. No official word yet, but Eve's confident it's the same weapon that was used to kill Lucy Bowers and the other three women."

Boyd visibly relaxes, his eyes closing again for a moment. When they open some of the tired wariness seems to have vanished. "Tell Spence to – "

"Boyd," she interrupts, "Spence isn't in a position to do _anything_. The IPCC appointed an investigating officer first thing this morning. Nothing else can happen until the whole incident's been thoroughly investigated and rubber-stamped, you know that. They've already taken preliminary statements from the three of us. They'll be coming in to talk to you as soon as the doctors allow it."

A shadow seems to pass over his face. There's no doubt he understands the possible ramifications of the mandatory investigation into the shooting. He mutters, "What did you tell them?"

"The only thing I could, that I was downstairs in the hall and didn't see any of it."

Boyd glowers at her. "Don't be obtuse, Grace."

It's the only confirmation of what happened beyond her sight that Grace needs. "So Stella was right," she says, knowing he will hear the over-controlled note in her voice, "you _did_ deliberately walk into Fenton's line of fire."

"Grace…"

"It's a damn good thing for you that she still thinks she owes you something for that all business with Drake," Grace says, each reproving word calm and clear, "otherwise you'd already be suspended, and they'd be asking you the kind of questions that you and I both know you don't want to have to answer."

They stare at each other in antagonistic silence, all sorts of complicated things deliberately left unspoken between them. Hard questions with complex answers; things that they aren't prepared to voice. Grace shakes her head at Boyd's refusal to explain, to reassure, and she turns away. She's not sure if she wants to walk right out of the room or not. Behind her, his tired voice says, "It just happened."

Strangely, Grace doesn't disbelieve him. Mendacious though Boyd can frequently be, it's not in his nature to lie simply to make things easy for himself, and his words do make an absurd sort of sense. She goes to stand by the window, finds herself looking down into a small unkempt inner courtyard that seems to function mainly as a large light well for the hospital's inner wards. Litter, straggly plants and weeds predominate. Not an inspiring sight. It looks as if it's going to rain soon. Cold, depressing autumn rain.

"Grace," he says. When she doesn't turn her head, he continues, "Grace, look at me."

Boyd is not the only one who can be stubborn. Not looking round, she says, "Spencer had to break the news to your brother. He's flying back to England as soon as he can. It's only by accident that he's not flying home to arrange your funeral."

"I realise that."

Now, she does turn. "Do you?" Boyd does not answer. Instead, he closes his eyes again. Angered by his obstinate avoidance, Grace takes a step back towards the bed. "What you did, Boyd… it wasn't just stupid, it was incredibly selfish. What do you think it would have done to Robert? Or his kids? To everyone who cares about you?"

She thinks the hollow noise he makes in response is probably supposed to be a wry laugh. "Yeah, because there are so many of those around, aren't there?"

The anger that flares inside her is hot and real. "Oh, grow up."

Boyd opens his eyes. "I'm serious. My damned ex won't answer my calls, the only family I've got left live abroad, my son's dead and my bloody wife ran off with another bloke years ago. Oh, and my superiors would dearly love to see the back of me. You'd hardly have been jostling for space at my graveside."

"_Don't_," Grace says, her voice hard and sharp.

The look in his eyes is something like the thousand yard stare she's seen too often from traumatised victims. People who have seen and suffered too much. His voice is very quiet. "What have I got left, Grace? Tell me that."

At least one answer burns through her in immediate response, but she finds herself shaking her head and saying, "If you keep talking like this, Boyd, I won't have a choice – I'll have to share my concerns about your state of mind with the DAC."

His expression hardens. "I don't respond well to emotional blackmail."

"And _I_ wouldn't stoop so low. It's not blackmail, it's a simple statement of fact."

"It would end my career."

"So?" Grace mocks, letting him hear at least an edge of her fury. "Yesterday you almost ended your own _life_, Boyd. If you think I wouldn't do everything I could to stop that happening, well, you don't know me at all."

Boyd's voice is quiet and deliberate. "Oh? I thought you didn't care?"

She almost flinches at the implicit accusation. Almost. A furious mixture of irritation and guilt makes her instantly counter, "And I thought _you_ had the hide of a rhinoceros. Since when has anything I've had to say actually bothered you?"

"Since _always_." Boyd is glaring at her, his hostile expression only emphasising how pale he is, how exhausted he looks. "What the hell did you expect me to do, Grace? Burst into tears and pour my damn heart out? Get down on my fucking knees and _beg_ you to help me? Because I warn you, that could be something of a problem just at the moment."

Stunned by the sheer audacity of his attack, Grace stares at him for a moment, and then she turns on her heel and stalks from the room. The increased surge of anger and adrenaline driving her doesn't ebb until long after she's reached her parked car.

-oOo-

It's a ridiculous overreaction, of course. That's the embarrassing irony that weighs an angry Grace down as she gathers her thoughts in Christchurch Gardens, not too far from New Scotland Yard. She ignores the Suffragette Monument and tries to find the composure she needs to think clearly. Conflicting instincts are pulling her in opposite directions, one half-made decision after another gaining ascendency and then losing it again as the internal battle continues. Duty requires one thing, friendship another. A choice has to be made. Head for Scotland Yard and the Deputy Assistant Commissioner's office, or risk going back to the hospital on the off chance that Boyd can be made to listen to her?

'_Boyd needs you,'_ that's what Eve said. _'You know it, I know it – everyone knows it.'_

Is that the crux of the whole matter? That somehow she's always sensed that need in him, even if Boyd's never admitted to it – and what Grace needs, more than anything else, is to be needed. Symbiosis.

If it's that simple then nothing's ever going to change between them. He is always going to be difficult and contradictory, always testing the boundaries like an insecure child, and she is always going to prioritise his emotional needs over hers because that's always been the easiest and most successful route to a halfway harmonious relationship. When things go wrong between them, Grace realises, they do so because one or other of them has stepped well outside the expected roles that they have learnt to play for each other. Complex, damaged man; patient, compassionate woman.

Awareness is depressing and unpalatable.

Surely they are both more, much more, than the predictable, world-weary caricatures they seem to have chosen to inhabit. Aren't they?

She could end his entire career at a single stroke. A depressed senior officer taking prescribed medication in the wake of a family tragedy is one thing, but a depressed senior officer with a demonstrable lack of regard for his own personal safety is patently unfit for command. That's what Boyd's superiors will say, and no-one will disagree with them.

Grace isn't aware of it, but her pace has quickened as she approaches the eastern edge of the park. The one nearest New Scotland Yard.

-oOo-

Boyd doesn't apologise and somehow that pleases her. It is, after all, highly characteristic of the man she knows. He just watches her as she approaches and finally says, "So, you came back, then. Should I be preparing myself for a visit from the DAC?"

"No," Grace tells him, towing the room's only chair to the side of the bed and then sitting down, "but we need to talk."

He looks momentarily relieved, but his answer is resolute. "We really don't, Grace. It was just a moment of stupidity, that's all."

She nods. "Against my better judgement I'm prepared to accept that. What frightens me is the thought that something like it might happen again."

"It won't."

"Convince me."

Boyd sighs, a heavy, weary sound that is magnified in the small room. "I just… let things get on top of me. I don't think I even really knew what I was doing. I kicked the door open and there he was, ready to fire. It all happened in an instant. Maybe I thought it was a quick and easy answer to everything, I don't know."

"And if you'd ended up paralysed, or worse?" Grace challenges.

"Didn't give it a thought," Boyd admits, and she knows he's telling the truth. "Not a pleasant idea, in hindsight."

Grace looks at him in silence, watching him watching her. There are so many… much easier… men in the world, but sometimes it feels as if she can only see _him_. As if he's the only reality in a world of insubstantial shadows. Blazing Technicolor in a sea of monochrome uniformity. She wants to seize hold of him and not let go, but whether to protect him, or simply to reassure herself she doesn't know. Both, maybe. She knows he'd never allow it. Too stubborn, too independent. No, she can't force any kind of hold on him, physical or emotional. Not breaking eye-contact, she says, "What you said was unfair. I can't be your therapist, Boyd. More, I _won't_ be."

He doesn't sigh, but it's heavily implied. "I know."

She waits for a second before asking, "What did your GP say? When she gave you the anti-depressants. Be honest with me."

Boyd looks away. "That I was suffering from depression and would benefit from grief counselling, or some such bollocks. I don't know, I wasn't really listening."

Grace believes that, too. Whether he wants to hear it or not, she says, "Depression is an illness, Boyd, not a sign of weakness. Anti-depressants help some people and not others. The most effective treatment – "

The interruption is predictable, but not as brusque as she expects. "I thought you weren't doing the therapist thing?"

Grace holds her hands up, palms towards him. A placatory gesture. "I'm just trying to be a friend, that's all."

Most of the fight seems to go out of him, and suddenly he looks incredibly tired and vulnerable. "That's all I need, Grace."

"I know you think I talk far too much," she says carefully after several moments, fighting the temptation to reach out and take his hand, "but believe it or not, I'm pretty damn good at listening, too."

-oOo-

_continued..._


	5. Five

**FIVE**

To her surprise, Boyd says far more than Grace expects. Some of it is hesitant and fractured, as if he's slowly thinking things through as he voices them, but all of it is delivered in a quiet, restrained way. The lack of impatience and drama is poignant, underscoring just how much pain and guilt he really feels – and not just regarding the untimely death of his son. He's shared glimpses of dark and painful things with her before, but it's the first time that Grace has actually had an overpowering sense of what it really feels like to be Peter Boyd. What it's like to carry the weight of so many different burdens and responsibilities whilst standing on the crumbling edge of a bottomless chasm of empty despair, one that he quietly admits too often appears dangerously seductive. Beyond the pain, though, Grace sees intimidating flashes of the limitless fury and frustration that drives him, of the pure, visceral anger that leads him into trouble again and again.

"Sometimes, Grace," he eventually says in the same frighteningly measured way, "it's difficult to see the point of carrying on. At work I spend half my time skating on increasingly thin ice just to get the bloody job done, and the other half fighting tooth and nail to justify our continued existence to the Yard – and when I finally do get to go home, well, I'm forced to face the fact that my private life's been a complete fucking disaster for at least the last twenty years."

Grace knows he doesn't want her to either contradict or comfort him, so she settles for a safe, "I think everyone has similar thoughts at one time or another, Boyd."

"Please. Spare me the platitudes." He shakes his head. "You know why I chose to take on the job of commanding the CCU even though everyone thought it was professional suicide?"

"Because it put you in the best possible place to keep on looking for your son," she says, knowing she's right. He's told her as much before. "But it wasn't _just_ that, was it? You know exactly what it's like to live in limbo with no answers, and that's always given you the kind of empathy with those left behind that another officer simply wouldn't have. That hasn't changed, Boyd. Luke may be dead, but you can still make a huge difference to the lives of so many people."

He doesn't look encouraged. "What if I'm sick and tired of it, Grace? Forever dealing with the consequences of so much death and depravity. Listening to tragedy after tragedy always knowing that most of the time the very best result I can realistically hope for is to maybe lay some restless ghosts to rest."

It's a grim view of the work that they do, but one that she understands. There are triumphs, of course, but for every high profile success there are dozens of investigations that go precisely nowhere, and it is always Boyd who has to explain the harsh reality of all the false-starts and dead-ends to the hopeful relatives, the inquisitive journalists, the demanding superiors. Grace has never envied him that. Guessing it will sound trite, she tries, "We make a difference, Boyd. _You_ make a difference."

"I just find myself asking…" he trails off into silence.

She regards him quizzically. "Find yourself asking…?"

Boyd looks down. He seems to be gazing at the heavily-taped cannula that has yet to be removed from the back of his left hand. "Forget it. You'll think even less of me than you already do."

"I thought this was supposed to be about openness and honesty?" she prompts, but not harshly.

He remains silent. Just when Grace is certain he's not going to open up to her, he says, "I find myself asking 'what's in it for me?'. Now that Luke's… gone."

"Strange as it seems, I understand." At the doubtful look he gives her, Grace shrugs. "It doesn't make you a monster, Boyd, it just makes you human."

He grunts and looks away again. "What's out there to make all the struggling worthwhile, Grace? Now that there's no crazy hope that one day…"

The words are so quiet and so weary that they scare her. It's hard to accept that Boyd, who is always the first to get back to his feet after every knockdown, could become so irretrievably lost in a parched desert of doubt and desolation. He has his dark, self-doubting moods, always has done, but she's never before had genuine cause to worry so extensively about his state of mind. Suppressing her gnawing fears, Grace says, "What you're going through, the thoughts you're having, the questions you're asking – they're all perfectly normal for someone who's been through what you've been through. Think about it; you've been living on your nerves for _years_, waking up every day wondering if today will finally be the day when you get some answers. That sort of perpetual stress… well, it's hardly surprising there's a strong reaction when it's suddenly removed, is it? Combine that with grief and exhaustion…"

The faintest hint of a pained, cynical smile quirks at his mouth. "You're going to tell me it's going to get better, aren't you?"

"Because it _will_," she insists. "Whether you believe it or not."

"Maybe I don't want it to."

Not at all surprised by his words, Grace continues to persevere. "I understand that, too. Torturing yourself helps alleviate the guilt, doesn't it? Briefly."

This time Boyd actually does smile, but the touch of visible humour is every bit as bitter as his answering tone. "You should be a psychologist, Grace."

Banter – even dark banter – she can deal with. It's far better than the alternative. At least there is some spark left in him if he's capable of at least attempting the sort of mordant exchange that's commonplace between him. She says, "Entirely possible – but at the moment I'm concentrating on simply being a good friend."

"A better friend than I actually deserve." It is not a question, not even a rhetorical one.

"I'm going to go," she announces after a moment of meaningful silence. "Give you some time and space to think. I'll come back and see you tomorrow."

"I don't intend to still be here tomorrow," he tells her, sounding much more like himself in the touch of sudden defiance. "You know much I love hospitals."

Grace gets to her feet and picks up her bag, settles the strap securely on her shoulder. "Well, good luck with making a break for it. If you actually get as far as the end of the ward without keeling over I'll be very impressed. Behave yourself and they might think about discharging you at the weekend."

"So I've been told. Waste of bloody time." Boyd grimaces. "Apparently gunshot wounds are 'extremely rare in men of my age' so they're determined to keep an eye on me for as long as possible."

She has to smile at the sheer level of disgust evident in his voice. "Just don't try making a rope out of the bed sheets, Boyd. That would be embarrassingly passé."

-oOo-

"Well?" Eve's impatient voice asks in her ear. "Did you sort things out?"

Settled on her comfortable old couch with the radio softly chattering to itself in the corner of the room, Grace switches the phone to her other ear and says, "There was… some progress."

"That means 'no', doesn't?" is the irritable response. "Oh, for heaven's sake… Look, it's not difficult, Grace. _He's_ as miserable as sin because he thinks there's no-one left who gives a damn about him, and _you're_ as miserable as sin because for some reason you can't bring yourself to tell him just how fond of him you are. It's ridiculous – you're behaving like a couple of angst-ridden teenagers."

It's not difficult to guess why Eve chose pathology as a specialism. Corpses might require respect, but they don't demand tact. As a doctor to the sick rather than to the dead, her bedside manner would no doubt have been atrocious. Dryly, Grace responds, "I'll assume that's supposed to be some kind of motivational speech and not as insulting as it actually sounds."

The brief silence at the other end of the line speaks of petulant frustration. Then, "I'm struggling to find a diplomatic way to – "

"Diplomacy isn't your forte, Eve, trust me," Grace interrupts. She knows she sounds testy. "Oh, go on, just be blunt. It's got to be far less excruciating for both of us."

The invitation is a mistake, because Eve's immediate response is, "Do you love him?"

Glad that she can't be seen, Grace winces at the bold question. No-one else would dare… No, not strictly true – Frankie probably would have done, but Frankie is somewhere on the other side of the world happily researching… whatever it is she is researching. "Not _that_ blunt," Grace protests.

"Well?" Intransigent.

"It's not – "

Eve speaks over her. "Please don't say 'it's not that simple'. Not unless you want me to start tearing even more of my hair out in frustration. Do you know why little boys pull little girls' pigtails, Grace?"

She nearly groans. "Oh, please – not that old chestnut."

"True, though, isn't it? Boyd's been pulling your pigtails for as long as I've known the pair of you. Just _tell_ him, will you? Tell him he's got something more left to live for than his damned job. Because if you don't…"

Grace scowls at an imaginary vision of her colleague. "You wouldn't."

"Probably not," Eve's disembodied voice freely admits, "but are you really willing to take the risk?"

-oOo-

A new chair has arrived in Boyd's small side room overnight, big and robustly-upholstered, but sadly for Grace, when she arrives it is already occupied by a baleful-looking Detective Superintendent. She would cheerfully have paid money – quite a lot of money – to see the titanic battle of wills that must have ensued between Boyd and the large and brusque ward Sister she presumes is responsible for the empty and now neatly-made bed next to him. He's wearing a fresh hospital gown too, though most of him is resentfully huddled beneath a thin white blanket. Trying hard not to laugh, she asks, "Oh, dear. Let me guess – compulsory bed bath?"

"Piss off."

He's feeling better. It's no exaggeration that her heart soars in response to the curt reply. Morose, Grace is used to; thoroughly defeated and dejected she is not. Appropriating the smaller and less comfortable chair, she says, "Fenton's gun's just been confirmed as our murder weapon. Eve called me as I was driving over."

Boyd closes his eyes for a second. "Pity we won't be able to drag the evil fucking bastard in front of a jury."

She understands. The matter is concluded, but justice hasn't been done, not really. Alex Fenton will never have to account for his actions. Not to any earthly power, at least. "It's closure for the families, though, Boyd."

One accusing eye opens. "I've told you before about using that bloody awful word in front of me. What about the IPCC investigation?"

"Nothing official yet, but they seem satisfied that all protocols were followed correctly. Stella's had an off-the-record nod from the investigating officer. All pretty straightforward, by the sound of it." Grace watches as Boyd scratches absentmindedly at the silvery stubble that's starting to erode the neat edges of his goatee beard. She's never been more tempted to offer to help a man shave. A simultaneously erotic and disturbing vision slams fully-formed into her mind and it causes a warm rush of blood to her cheeks. Damn the man. To distract herself she hastily continues, "I had a word with your doctor on the way up. If they can get you on your feet later and you continue to improve, they'll probably send you home on Friday."

He frowns. "That's not what I heard."

"I may have interceded a little on your behalf," she admits. If his blood pressure doesn't skyrocket in the next few minutes she'll be very surprised indeed. At least he's in the right place if he actually has a heart attack.

Boyd's expression becomes suspicious, brows drawing together. "What have you done, Grace?"

He's not going to take the news well. At best there will be a highly vocal temper tantrum only slightly circumscribed by his current level of incapacity. She's a fool to herself. Needling him will only make matters worse but Grace can't help herself. "Don't feel you have to thank me."

The striking dark eyes are glittering as he glares at her. "I'm not even going to consider thanking you until I know what the bloody hell you've done."

She decides to just enjoy the moment. "Let's just say it's a good thing we get on so well – "

"Huh."

" – and that you've got at least one spare bedroom." She watches as realisation begins to dawn.

"You've got to be kidding me… No." The way Boyd shakes his head is quite definite. He looks faintly appalled. "_No_, Grace."

She smiles at him, optimistically imagining herself to resemble a picture of complete innocence. "Well, if you don't like it, you're perfectly welcome to stay here all weekend and take your chances with Brünnhilde out there. I think she secretly rather likes you."

Boyd's reply is succinct and a long way from polite. Displeasure thoroughly voiced, he glares at her in stony silence. His sullen reaction is nowhere near as explosive as predicted, but it does make Grace remember Eve's snide comment about them both behaving like teenagers. Makes her come to the reluctant conclusion that their younger colleague is right. About everything, probably. The old, old game lost its lustre a long time ago. Perhaps it stopped being anything like a game a long time ago, too. Became just a nameless, aggravating thing twisting and turning between them, a continual source of annoyance and dissatisfaction with no finite borders.

She makes the terrifying decision in a split second. "Ask me again what you've got left, Boyd."

Again, he frowns, the lines etched across his forehead deepening. "What?"

Grace repeats herself, adding, "Humour me."

Boyd shakes his head, plainly bemused. "All right. What have I got left, Grace?"

She's already on her feet. "Me," she says, stooping down to kiss him. It's the lightest, gentlest brush of her lips against his, but it says far more than Grace could ever hope to convey in hours of complicated words. It's a bold, potentially self-destructive ploy and she really doesn't know what to expect in response, but when she feels Boyd's fingers close around her wrist to prevent her from pulling away, she is not disappointed.

-oOo-

_continued..._


	6. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

It's not quite a week since the very first time Grace ascended this steep staircase. A strange thought, given everything that has happened since. Tonight Boyd is a couple of stairs ahead of her, moving every bit as slowly and carefully as might be expected of a late middle-aged man whose upper abdomen has recently been pierced by a fast-travelling chunk of copper-alloy-coated lead. Comprehensively dosed with a mixture of antibiotics and painkillers he might very well be, but she's watched him grow steadily more peevish and uncomfortable as the evening has progressed, the final proof of just how much the carefully-dressed bullet wound is hurting evident in his immediate and uncharacteristic compliance when she cautiously suggested an early night might benefit both of them.

A few stairs from the top of the flight, he pauses and sways slightly, gripping the bannister rail hard. He recovers almost immediately, but not before Grace can anxiously question, "All right?"

"Fine," is the terse reply, but the last leg of the challenging ascent is made at an even slower pace than before.

Reaching the high-ceilinged landing, Grace tries not to dwell on how much the necessary exertion seems to have cost him. Further ill-advised expressions of concern will be met with increasingly bad-tempered rebuffs, she knows that. As it is, Boyd is only barely tolerating the unsavoury notion that without her promised overnight presence in the house he would still be confined to his bland hospital room – or worse, would have found himself moved out onto the crowded main ward to await discharge. Drawing any more attention to the reason why her suitcase is sitting beside the bed in the rear bedroom would be a very bad idea indeed. Faced with little alternative, however, she reluctantly summons the willpower and self-possession to ask, "Do you need any help to…?"

The withering look she receives in return suggests Boyd would willingly endure just about anything to avoid the kind of intimate interference somehow suggested by the awkward but necessary question. "I'm a big boy, Grace. I think I can just about manage to put myself to bed."

It's idiotic, the way they're so carefully manoeuvring around each other, teetering on the threshold of something without quite reaching out to fully embrace it. The stilted and overly-polite conversation of the last hour or more is a very sharp contrast to the cautious affection of her last few trips to see him, or to the easy, warm way they greeted each other when she dutifully collected him from the hospital earlier that afternoon. Something has changed, as if a spell has been broken; as if the cold reality of their separate lives has started to catch up with them again. Two steps forward, Grace thinks with a despondent inward sigh, one step back. Typical of the way they've always been. Gain ground, lose ground. God only knows what Eve would say if she could see them now.

"Fair enough." She has no intention of fighting with him. Not tonight. "Well, if you do need anything…"

"I'll shout."

She takes a deliberate step away from him. The landing walls are cream and smoothly-plastered, as immaculately decorated as the refurbished skirting boards and the detailed cornices. Meaningless, insignificant things. "All right, but try not to wake the neighbours."

"They're used to it."

"I bet." She smirks for a moment. Painful silence. Another forced step away.

"Thank you," Boyd says abruptly, surprising her. His expression is earnest, intense. "For this. For everything, I suppose."

Sometimes she thinks she'll never understand him, or the way his mind works. It might not matter. Aware of the risk she's running, she says, "I'm not the enemy. Try to remember that. I just..." Grace hesitates, more daunted by the dangerous undeclared words themselves than by the intent way Boyd is watching her. It should be easy, but it's not. She gives up, shrugs. "I care, that's all."

"Why?"

The reply is so blunt, and so absolutely typical of him that Grace has to make a conscious effort stop herself from uttering a harsh laugh. How is it possible that he can still ask her such a thing? Surely he's not serious? It's impossible to tell. More tired than irate, she rolls her eyes. "If you really don't know by now, I'm not going to waste my breath explaining it to you in words of one syllable, Boyd."

"Fine." Dismissive, but the way he continues to gaze at her suggests he's still stubbornly waiting for clarification. It's going to be a long wait – it's been a very long and stressful week and Grace simply hasn't got the strength to wrestle with his apparent refusal to see what's right in front of him. If he still doesn't understand, well… But perhaps it's not _Boyd_ who doesn't understand. A chill goes through her at the stray thought. Maybe it's her; maybe she's guilty of misunderstanding, of making foolish assumptions based on… what? A serpentine river of conversation and a few stolen kisses when he was unusually vulnerable?

The meaningful silence continues until she manages to mumble, "Well, I suppose I'd better go and make myself comfortable in the spare room…"

"You don't have to." The gruff statement is delivered a little too fast, a little too hard. Boyd clears his throat, a sure sign that he's edgy, that he's not only aware of the uneasy tension between them, but of at least some of the many reasons for it. Grace looks back at him without a word and he shrugs in reply, the slight movement of his shoulders a touch helpless. "The spare room. You don't… What I mean is… well, you could… I mean, if we… Oh, for fuck's sake. You know what I'm trying to say, Grace."

She does. Something warm and affectionate rises inside her as most of the crushing sense of insecurity is swept aside by his inept, disjointed words. It's not a lack of understanding on either side, Grace realises, it's a lack of certainty, as if neither of them has quite enough self-confidence to trust that the unconfirmed promise of an entirely new status quo isn't merely a dangerous chimera that will suddenly vanish, leaving them to deal with shattering humiliation.

"Keep digging," she says straight-faced, relying on sharp humour to mask her discomfiture.

In return he treats her to the boyish, self-effacing smile that never fails to make her heart skip a beat. It changes the whole character of his face, banishes the brooding heaviness, makes him look years younger. "Feel free to rescue me at any time."

Feeling a little sorry for him, but also amused by his emotional clumsiness, Grace leans against the landing wall. It feels cool and solid against her back. Real. Her nonchalance is contrived. One wrong move from either of them now and… She regards him contemplatively. "Are you asking me to sleep with you, Boyd?"

"Figuratively or literally?" The tone is grave, but the distant glint of humour in the deep, compelling eyes is far gentler and mellower than she might ever have expected.

Grace shrugs, pushing aside the last lingering remnants of a clammy sense of embarrassment. It's long past time that they started to enjoy the old familiar game again. "Either. Both."

Still solemn, Boyd leans against the opposite wall, exactly mirroring her posture whether he knows it or not. "I'm not much of a threat to your virtue at the moment, I'm afraid."

Straightening up, Grace steps towards him. "There's one very admirable quality I possess that you conspicuously lack, Boyd."

"Patience?" he guesses, holding his ground.

"Patience," Grace confirms, reaching out to take his hand. Oh, yes, she's patient. She can wait a little longer.

_- the end -_


End file.
